


hands on throats, teeth on tongues

by GreenThing



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Genre: Brave!Shaggy, Broken Bones, M/M, Sexual Repression, bc it's a masterpiece and also this fic will be confusing without it, floor makeouts, if you haven't seen phantosaur you really should, just a bit on Fred's end, references to Legend of the Phantosaur, some crotch stepping as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenThing/pseuds/GreenThing
Summary: The guys work some stuff out, to put it lightly.
Relationships: Fred Jones/Norville "Shaggy" Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 76





	hands on throats, teeth on tongues

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd

“You want to…. what?”

“You heard me.”

Fred wasn’t really sure he had. Maybe it was leftover adrenaline from the mystery -- it was just under an hour ago that the Man-Fish of Martinique was unmasked as a low-ranking government official and taken away for crimes of money laundering (among a fairly colourful slew of other charges). It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for the other man to still be too wired up to calm down.

But there was a glint in Shaggy’s eye. He was serious. Fred’s palms started to sweat.

“I-I don’t want to fight you, Shag,” he stuttered out, the initial chuckle of disbelief since snuffed out by a wave of surprise. The exchange would be funny were it not so bizarrely _wrong_.

A movement drew Fred’s eyes down and his shoulders up. A breath he didn’t know he drew in was released in a puff; the beatnik had only lid his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the dilapidated bar behind him. While Velma and Daphne went on ahead to scout out the fancy hotel rooms they were rewarded for solving the case, Shaggy led Fred back to the shabby building (Scooby was following after a pretty little stray, last they saw). Once a popular watering hole, now it wasn’t much more than dark, dusty wood and the faintest stain-smells of rich cigars and alcohol.

Baby blues trailed back up to Shaggy’s face, and Fred was startled all over again. That scruffy face, usually so open, almost always caught in a smile, held a look so crooked it looked like it belonged on a wanted poster, not on his friend. The air of self-assuredness was driving off all the oxygen. One of Fred’s hands twitched, the motion to roll down the window quickly aborted. The van wasn’t even outside. The hotel wasn’t far off but Fred let the girls take it anyway. Part of him feels like he should be regretting it, and maybe he does, just a little.

The offputting of all, though, were his eyes. A long time ago one of them, Daphne perhaps, had pointed out how light Shaggy’s eyes were. Fred was sitting next to him at the time. He recalled peering around to see for himself, remembered how the attention had Shaggy blushing. Those eyes, warm and sweet like melted caramel, now bore into him, challenging him.

“I didn’t say _‘fight’_.” Even his voice was off. The timbre was lower, almost soft-spoken were it not for the calculated edge carrying along every word. Fred was suddenly aware of goosebumps dotting his skin despite his long sleeves, despite the humid nature of the island. “ I said _‘spar’_. They’re two very different things. Friends _spar_ and better each other. Friends _fight_ and then they aren’t friends anymore.”

It was like he was talking to someone much younger than himself, not someone he’s spent the better part of his life with as investigators. The realization stung more than the condescension.

Fred swallowed. All the windows were closed and boarded, marked for demolition the gang would never see, giving the inside of the bar no choice but to be stagnant and stifling. Already he could feel an itch in his throat.

“Sparring, fighting, I don’t want a part of either.”

He caught the subtlest narrowing of eyes before Shaggy replied with a concise “Why?”

“What do you mean _‘why?’_?” Fred spluttered back, brows shooting upwards. “Shaggy, you’re one of my best friends!” The taller ( _so much taller than Fred expects_ ) man bumped off the bar to stride closer, and against his own volition Fred could hear his voice grow equal parts more placating and frantic. “I can’t think of a single situation where I’d even consider throwing a punch at you--!”

The breeze caught him off guard. So did that crack. Did part of the wall just give way? There was a lot of rotting wood, after all…

Denial dampened his senses. His left ear grew hot, and it took Fred longer than he was willing to admit to come to terms that that really did just happen.

He turned without ever shifting his feet from where they were rooted to the floor. A thin arm was all he saw until it meshed into the dark wood beside his head. No, not meshed. Shaggy had very nearly punched a hole straight through the wall… Fred gulped down a surge of queasiness at the sight of his friend’s fingers, curled and covered in splinters, swelling before his eyes. Something had to have broken the second those delicate fingers met walnut planks.

“Sh-Shag--”

“There, I swung first. Now you have a reason to try to slug me.”

It was just wrong, so wrong. This wasn’t like Shaggy at all. Fred’s mind raced; was this some other trick? Did the “Man-Fish” have the real Shaggy kidnapped and replaced with an actor bent on pushing the gang apart? Was the man in front of him real, but perhaps drugged? He was too close. The ascot around Fred’s neck was growing damp with cold sweat.

When he turned back, gaze tearing away from the bleeding knuckles inches away and locking back onto Shaggy’s, Fred was suffocating. He almost loomed over him, Fred’s back to the wall, that deceptively powerful arm blocking off an escape to the left, leaving his only escape route to the right. Even so, the claustrophobia was already setting in. This wasn’t at all how he expected the end of that day to go.

The whisper of _La Serena_ ghosted just under his skull. What frustrated Fred further was how he was so flustered he couldn’t immediately recall the significance of the name. He heard himself make a noise -- not a growl, not a cry, but a bastardization of the two -- and felt but didn’t see how he’d tossed a quick right hook somewhere in Shaggy’s general vicinity. Fred didn’t want to hurt him, he just wanted some space--

_Thump._

The back of his hand was suddenly a little cooler. When Fred dared to open his eyes he was met with the sight of a full-on smirk, and a moment’s investigation determined that he hadn’t made contact with Shaggy whatsoever. One didn’t have to be an investigator to figure out his wrist was caught, mid-swing, and effectively pinned beside his head. The wood on the opposite side groaned as the beatnik’s wounded hand was extricated.

Fred squirmed but Shaggy had him in a vice. His knees started feeling weak from the oppressive aura. “Good try,” Shaggy praised him. Suddenly Fred was glad his hand was held in place. “You’re strong, but I’m fast.” The yelp from Fred’s throat as he was yanked from the wall, spun and tossed, was less dignified than he’d like to think about. He stumbled, nearly tripping on a broken stool, and clutched a support beam in his path to combat the sudden momentum. Whipping back around to face Shaggy again Fred felt his face start to pale. As casual as can be, Shaggy stood right where he was, plucking splinters from his hand as though they were daisy petals, his face so impassive and unimpressed it made Fred’s heart hurt. Then he reset whatever bone it was that broke with a hearty pop! and truthfully, Fred was amazed he didn’t faint then and there.

It was a primitive sort of fear -- and yes, he was afraid. It left him tense, a little lightheaded, quite literally on his toes. His knuckles grew white, the beam under them groaning; was this how Shaggy felt on a near daily basis? 

The beatnik advanced on him again, shadowed eyes contrasting with his crooked grin. Fred released the wood and half-heartedly swung. Shaggy didn’t cease his advance, merely leaning away from the clammy fist. A flicker of frustration was starting to build in Fred’s chest. He swung again only to have his wrist pushed away as though he were a naive child wanting to explore how sharp glass really was. Again and again Fred tried to land a hit, and soon the fear of whoever Shaggy was in that moment was engulfed in that frustration, in confusion. The whole time Shaggy was giving him that smug look as if he’d already won. For all Fred knew, maybe he had.

“Why are you doing this?!” Fred heard himself say. He could have winced with how pitiful he sounded, his desperation vocalized for anyone to hear.

Shaggy caught one of his wrists again, mid-punch, their eyes locked for a single second, and Fred couldn’t help but gasp. In a motion almost too quick to witness first-person, Shaggy turned so Fred’s arm draped over his shoulder, pressing them together chest to back. Fred realized all too soon that his own momentum was being used against him; his feet slid on the dusty floor, and he was helpless as Shaggy effortlessly, soundlessly, tossed the blond over his shoulder to slam him into the ground.

For a split second, Fred thought it was the end. Silly in hindsight, but never before had he so thoroughly had the wind knocked out of him. He laid there, sprawled, blue eyes wide and staring at nothing while he willed his lungs to remember how to work again. The worst part was feeling Shaggy’s eyes on him. No, the worst part was meeting those eyes and seeing in them how the two of them were mirrored.

Fred, nervous, trembling, and wanting to hide. Shaggy, confident, proud, fearless.

“La Serena,” Fred gasped out. _The Phantosaur case!_ It all made sense then! One shaky arm tried to prop up only to have a worn derby shoe push it back onto the floorboards. He thought better than to go against the clear warning given, his limbs going lax. “You-- the hypnotism-- still works?”

Shaggy chuckled, and Fred couldn’t stifle the full body shiver at the sound. He swallowed thickly. This was dangerous.

“Gee, what clued you in?” he leered, stepping around so they weren’t looking at each other upside down. Fred’s eyes never left his, even when Shaggy put enough weight on his forearm that he could feel the arch of his foot through the sole. He continued to lay there despite the fact he was no longer pinned. His chest was still heaving. Shaggy hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Fred coughed. “I thought Dr. Hubley got rid of it.”

“I bet he thought so too.”

There was silence for a long while barring Fred still trying to catch his breath. Usually he was pretty tuned in to Shaggy’s frequency, he liked to think, knowing when to grab the nape of his shirt when things started to get spooky versus when a Scooby Snack encouragement was in order. Not this Shaggy, though. He was too different, a near-impossible read.

Those sharp brown eyes took in his prone form and Fred realized too late that he himself is far too upfront in his emotions to keep anything hidden. He weakly tried to gather himself up, pull himself backwards, put some kind of distance between them when Shaggy placed his foot on the crotch of Fred’s jeans. Fred wheezed in another gasp, and, suddenly unable to bear seeing the look on his friend’s face, turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut.

Hot shame should’ve overridden the arousal. _It’s just the adrenaline_ , he tried to tell himself. _It doesn’t **mean** anything_\--

Then Shaggy dug his heel into Fred’s hardness, and Fred keened. Both hands flew to cover his mouth, ears going red. Just when he thought the night couldn’t get any more bizarre.

“Well how about that.” Fred felt a little dizzy hearing that confident drawl. One of his knees twitched, unsure if it wanted to kick him off or push himself more into the pressure. “You get off on getting your ass kicked, big guy?”

Fred whimpered, eyes shut so tight he was seeing stars. “No,” he wanted to say but all that came out was a muffled squeak.

Thin fingers curled around his wrists to gently pry them away from his face. Surprised, Fred let his hands be pulled away and peeked one baby blue open. Rather than the sneer he had expected, he was met with something verifiably warmer on Shaggy’s unshaven face. His eyes were still dark, but replacing the wild yet calculated glint was something a little more…. interested. Still half-lidded yet undeniably…. something. Fred didn’t know. All he knew was that look alone was making him harder.

Shaggy was kneeling, then, hovering over him with a knee situated between Fred’s legs. He was on the balls of his feet, the weight enough for Fred to grunt while not being enough to hurt. Fred’s hands were pushed away, set at his sides, Shaggy’s trailing up after. The broken one settled on a bicep for balance. The other went to his ascotted throat.

It should have been scary. He should have gotten terrified all over again. But… for all his bravado, it was still the same Shaggy he grew up with, who had every right to leave Mystery Inc. after being the bait for years but _didn’t_ , who could have beaten Fred within an inch of his life in that dilapidated bar but _wouldn’t_. 

Maybe he was a fool to still trust him with his life. He didn’t think so. 

Fingers curled into his jugular, snapping him back to the present. “How ya feelin’ now, Freddie?”

Fred’s breath hitched, his hips jerking up to grind against Shaggy’s shin. They were so close now that he was sure Shaggy could feel the heat of his blush.

It was a good thing that seemed answer enough for him because Fred wasn’t sure if he had the capacity to think in English let alone speak it.

“Yeah? You like this?”

Fred whined outright. He did. He hadn’t even known before then.

“So this should be okay then.” And he leaned down the rest of the way to kiss him.

Maybe ‘kiss’ was too saccharine of a word to use. Fred had been kissed before, usually without warning and rarely did he return them, but whatever this was with Shaggy was something too dissimilar to even categorize it the same way. It was hungry, hard instead of soft, and when Fred groaned Shaggy took the opportunity to slip his tongue in. Looking back on it, Fred wasn’t proud to admit that tasting the fresh market pineapple by proxy of another man’s tongue had him much more turned on than he should’ve been.

And the whole time Shaggy is rocking, back and forth, bearing down on his clothed cock, tonguing his mouth and gripping his throat--

Fred blamed the adrenaline from before on top of his innocent nature. His hips jumped, once, twice, before he accidentally bit Shaggy’s tongue and came in his jeans, hard. Mercifully, Shaggy didn’t speak, just held firm while a whimpering and panting Fred frotted against his leg. When Fred opened his eyes again (when had he closed them?) he couldn’t tell if Shaggy was smiling or smirking. He felt Shaggy’s thumb trace his jaw, touch so tender that Fred could have melted in his post-orgasm bliss.

Shaggy’s voice was a little gruffer than before when he spoke again. “Startin’ to think we should’ve just done this from the start.” Fred couldn’t argue that, really. “Could’ve saved myself the trouble of this--” The hand on Fred’s arm lifted, and Fred’s face pinched when he remembered that it was broken less than ten minutes ago. Shaggy must’ve seen the mother hen start to rear up because then he said, “I’ll get a cast for it in the morning, relax.”

Fred wanted to argue the importance of getting broken bones checked out immediately, the dangers of things healing wrong, only to be silenced by the look of challenge. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything tonight -- hell, he was still recovering from having cum -- but if that hand didn’t have something on it by noon, by golly, will he have some choice words!

Shaggy stood, straight and so very tall, looking all different kinds of unreachable, untouchable, from Fred’s post on the floor. “I’m heading to the hotel. If you don’t want to worry the girls, I suggest you start peeling yourself up soon.” And with that, he strolled out as casual as could be, hands in pockets and everything.

Barely a minute passed when Fred recalled that the rooms they were given were just split for the sexes. The girls shared a room, the guys shared a room. That’s just how they always handled it. What really got him moving, however, was how he was positive he hadn’t imagined Shaggy growing hard straddled against Fred’s thigh, and how there was a pretty fair chance that the hotel had one king size bed rather than two doubles.

So he hauled himself onto shaky legs, cringed at the mess in his pants, and made quick work of shedding his undershirt to tie around his waist to cover his filth. The last thing he said before slipping his overshirt back on and trailing after Shaggy was a quiet affirmation to himself.

“It’s… only _fair_ to pay him back, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> these two need more fics together i swear to GOD


End file.
